Stained Glass Post Cards
by MiraMizu15
Summary: Antonio was on the brink of coming home from a five-month long culinary workshop in Spain. Lovino, plagued by fears, decided to create a work of art larger than life, one that encompassed everything Antonio loved and learned on his trip.


**::A/N:: Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia nor the picture. Link to the pixiv artist on my page.**

**This is a (late) secret santa present for catowynchan on tumblr! Thank you for being so patient, and I hope you enjoy this. **

* * *

The envelope stared balefully at him from its honorary place on the kitchen table, dominating the surrounding bills and graduate school documents with curly letters and loud exclamation points. The stamp was colorful vomit on ugly beige paper stock, and Lovino wondered how much it had cost. Were stamps in Spain more expensive than in America? He had no idea, and that sort of question would sound ridiculously dumb on paper: groping, desperate for avenues of conversation.

Which he wasn't, Lovino argued silently, tapping his foot on the lowest rung of the metal bar stool, the axle screeching every time he turned, anxiety beyond unnecessary at this point. How many of these letters had he received anyway? Seventeen? Twenty? It wasn't like the contents would be any less engaging or affectionate. The sender hadn't lost interest in him, Lovino was certain.

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Lovino left his squeaky seat for the espresso maker by the window. The kitchen was small, but then so was the entire apartment. Three rooms, one bath. It had been dirt cheap because the surrounding neighborhoods were considered dangerous, low-income housing. The rationale was that adults fresh out of college couldn't afford much more.

Antonio hated the place. He never said anything against it, never actually gave any evidence of his dislike, but Lovino knew his boyfriend wanted to live somewhere beautiful and picturesque. He wasn't a city man, despite his best intentions, and living in the pits on the outskirts of New York City only exemplified his unfavorable opinions. He stayed and smiled only because Lovino needed to stick around for a few years more.

At four o'clock in the afternoon, the streets were fairly deserted. Lovino stared out the window as steam poured from every crevice of the expensive coffee machine, a well-earned indulgence last Christmas. Convincing Antonio to put out half the money had been difficult at the time, but a few warm, coffee-improved mornings later and the Spaniard had been won over. He always was, Lovino thought affectionately.

Or he always had been. Lovino hadn't seen Antonio in almost five months, and the apartment had never felt emptier. The loneliness manifested itself in the missing toothbrush over the sink, the fuzzy sweatshirt Antonio had forgotten, the fact that Lovino still picked up peach-flavored Greek yogurt at the market even though he hated the goopy texture. The ghost of his kisses haunted the pillow each morning and the phantom brush of his caress haunted the mattress each night.

Despite feelings to the contrary, Lovino's solo situation really wasn't all that dramatic. Antonio was a culinary student, out of university already but currently enrolled in a five-month long workshop in Spain with other up and coming young chefs. The opportunity was incredible, something no one should turn down, and although money was tight because of it, Antonio had never been happier.

Naturally, however, Lovino missed Antonio desperately. The smiles, the laughter, the stupid advice; he'd been gone for so long, it was impossible to keep himself from brooding over sinister possibilities.

It was foolish to think that the Spaniard had changed; when he finally came home, he would be the same as always, wouldn't he? Maybe more worldly, infinitely better at Spanish no doubt, perhaps wiser for the wear, but Lovino contented himself with the fact that Antonio's intrinsic character was so profound, so beautiful that it could never be erased.

Antonio had loved him when he left, he would love him when he returned in a week's time. Lovino had to believe that. He treated the honey-coated words in Antonio's letters like gospel; he was nourished by the promises between the lines of a sweet homecoming, of warmth returned to the darkest crevices of his soul. Antonio missed him as well. Halfway through their communication, the Spaniard's letters had stopped taking on such a lonesome, somber note, and began trumpeting excitement for his imminent return, reminding Lovino with every correspondence that they were halfway over the hill.

So he had to believe that Antonio would never shrink from coming home.

If only that was the least of his worries.

The red light on the espresso maker flickered off and the steam dissipated, leaving only warm caffeine in the mug below. Paint-speckled fingers reached for the handle, carefully avoiding the scalding porcelain sides. Lovino grimaced at all the oils that were wasted on his skin, coloring the dry brown a rainbow of oranges and violets. His shirt was no better, worn fabric weighed down by splatters of misplaced paint. It was the hazard of art, and the danger escalated the larger the canvas. Antonio would laugh to see him in such a state, ironed dress shirts put aside for clothes falling apart at the seams.

Espresso slipped across his tongue, wetting the cracks of his throat dry from neglect. His morning had been long already, and it was only ten o'clock. Time was dwindling until Antonio's return, and Lovino had only six days to prepare for his arrival. Six more days to finish; the Italian wasn't sure he'd ever worked this hard.

Undoubtedly, the letter on the counter would be Antonio's last letter until he could speak to Lovino in the flesh. The silly, wonderful Spaniard couldn't afford an international data plan, and emails were somehow too impersonal. Antonio had insisted: forced Lovino to promise him before his flight had departed that he would actually write in return. He hadn't wanted virtual responses to his romantic dedication, and Lovino honestly couldn't blame him. The Spaniard's looping, half-cursive scrawl was beautiful at the worst of times, a warm embrace at the best. Lovino had saved all the letters of course, sliding them between the pages of his favorite books to be surprised with later. He didn't trust them out in the open where paint splotches and spilt tea could accidentally ruin them. They were meant to be preserved for all time.

After all, each held a plethora of exquisite memories Antonio wrote down just for him, each filled with jokes and explanations. Two, three, four pages of experiences that Antonio would treasure for the rest of his life, and he'd chosen to let Lovino in rather than block him out. Lovely, sweet Antonio who had the world at his fingertips still wanted to write to his lover back home.

Fingers shaking, excitement undeniable, Lovino overcame his initial fears and ripped into the letter. He tore the top of the envelope off and was greeted with the usual: two separate documents. The first was Antonio's hand written letter, a bubbly account of everything he wanted to tell and everything he wanted to know. The second, as always, was a postcard. His roommate had no way of downloading pictures in Spain, so he had to save all of his original photos to unveil upon his return. What he did send were touristy postcards depicting brightly colored beaches, clubs, and beautiful monuments. On the back would be a quirky comment or a crude drawing of something Antonio thought the glossy photo lacked.

This time was no different. Lovino put aside the slightly-crumpled handwritten letter. He liked reading them right before he went to bed, cradled by the blankets he and Antonio normally shared.

Instead he reached for the postcard, and as always his heart slammed painfully in his chest. It was a beautiful image of La Sagrada Familia. Antonio had been wanting to go to Barcelona for months and months, but school and work had kept him too busy to travel that far. It seemed as though he'd finally made it. He flipped the picture around and read Antonio's messy post script.

_LOVI_

_La Sagrada Familia is as beautiful as they all say!_

_I want to come back someday to visit it with you. _

_It's supposed to be completed in our lifetime, can _

_you believe it? I took lots of pictures of course. I miss_

_you so much. I'll see you in a few days, though. It's so_

_beautiful here, I can't get enough. I'll be sad to come _

_home to snow and freezing temperatures! Why is _

_America so cold? It's not fair. If only we could live_

_here. Love you lots, ANTONIO_

Lovino's chest squeezed painfully. All of Antonio's letters, emails, post cards, and rare phone calls were like this, glorifying every inch of Spain and all its beauty, while simultaneously wishing they didn't live on the East Coast of America. It was no feat to realize how in love Antonio was with Spain. Nothing could dampen his perpetually cheerful spirits; not the course load for his workshop, not the rampant lack of jobs, not the expensive rent he had to pay for his flat in Madrid.

Lovino was terrified that Antonio would return home to their dingy flat in their dirty neighborhood and become quickly disenchanted. He would become unhappy, dissatisfied, constantly wishing he wasn't stuck in New York City with a desperate boyfriend. Antonio had been across the world; what did their tiny little home have to offer him anymore? Lovino, as much as he might want to, couldn't upend his life in New York for grander and more beautiful things..

He couldn't help but fear that Antonio would simply grow tired and leave. Naturally, he hadn't brought up any of these concerns to the man himself. His boyfriend needed to stay focused on getting ready to return home safe and sound. He had exams to take and suitcases to pack. Antonio was such a social person; Lovino knew it would be hard for him to leave all his friends in Spain behind. During the few Skype sessions they'd shared over periods where Antonio had so much work he couldn't get a letter out on time, Lovino had been introduced to a few of them, all curvy, gorgeous, friendly people who had overwhelmed Lovino with their capacity for kindness. He had no doubts that all of those bright-eyed people would be on the receiving end of letters themselves.

Lovino didn't know any Spanish, but he had been able to translate the excitement in their faces upon finally seeing the mystery boyfriend Antonio spent all his time pining over. It was horribly flattering. Antonio's face had been so red and embarrassed, and Lovino had managed to get his message across in a mixture of Italian and English and laughter. Antonio had looked ecstatic, and surrounded by all those brilliant people, he had been brighter than the sun. But he always was to Lovino.

"Fuck," he sighed, cracking his back and dropping the tiny blue porcelain cup into the sink. He had a lot of work to do before Antonio got home, but more than that, he had to clean up the gigantic mess he'd made of their apartment.

With the Spaniard gone, Lovino had been lonely. Naturally, he'd told Antonio he was fine, but he'd resorted to calling Belle and Feliciano after just a few days asking for horribly mortifying advice. He couldn't help but ignore their suggestions. "Join a workshop like Toni!" and "Find a second job!" had been the last things on his potential agenda for self-help. Driven wild by pent-up, nervous energy, Lovino had taken solace in his favorite outlet.

Antonio would be –simply put - horrified if he were ever to see the bomb Lovino's creativity had set off in their sanctum sanctorum. The Italian had had a sort of existential crisis in Antonio's absence, driven desperate by potentially unfounded but very real worries and fears.

The plan had blossomed over the stupid postcards, each one more beautiful and scenic than the last. Gorgeous beaches, rampant night life, feats of Old World architecture that New York City could never hope to compare. The crisp, colorful images had only heightened the disparity between Spain and their shitastic flat. There was nothing in their neighborhood to consider breathtaking; out each window of their apartment was grime and cell-block style buildings. Dirty, gray rectangles with gray people and gray lives.

Now it was the middle of December, the snow that had fallen only a few days ago was already black with street soot, and the skies were an endless stretch of overcast. Lovino could only imagine the shock Antonio would experience coming back from Spain now of all times.

So, on a crazy, ill-conceived, booze-induced whim, he had decided to bring Spain to their dingy apartment. On every window in every room Lovino was in the midst of creating a scene from one of the post cards, using glass-friendly paints and a reference image in order to craft something akin to stained glass.

Already, he'd sketched images for the living room, the kitchen, and their bedroom; the process to transition them from paper to window pane had been painstaking and rife with errors. He'd erased and reconfigured the intricate details of the Alhambra sketch at least three times, worried overly-much that the Islamic stone carvings had not been done justice. Antonio had raved about the beauty of the palace in Grenada, and Lovino wanted to replicate it perfectly in their living room window.

He had in mind a total of seven window-size paintings of Spain, etched in marker and colored to imitate a photograph, layered and shaded as he would on any canvas.

Perhaps their landlord would give birth to an entire herd of cows before he listened to any of Lovino's reasonable explanations (the paint was washable, after all), but the thought hadn't really crossed his mind until the plan was too far under way to pull out. It didn't matter regardless: doing something dramatic and ridiculous for Antonio's homecoming mattered. Any repercussions would just be a funny story to tell Feli's kids.

He had even managed to scrounge the okay from his professors to use the entire project as his thesis. Even just a little slack from school was a God send; work kept Lovino busy enough without a scheme on a scale this grand sucking the hours from his day. Every moment had flown by since the thought had first occurred to him, swallowed under sheer motivational distraction.

Lovino was putting his soul into the window murals and knowing that it was all for Antonio had eased the temporary hole he'd left in his life. Every line took his mind off Antonio's absence; every final decision allowed him the chance to forget how many days he had left until Antonio's flight home. It was catharsis for him as well as a gift for Antonio.

The only finished piece was splashed across their bedroom window where Lovino had etched a dramatic interpretation of a street view in Madrid, painting the churches and the brightly lit shops and faceless strangers dancing in the square as evening fell. When the sun rose in the morning, their bedroom would be bathed in a violet and orange glow and waking up to something so beautiful was a welcome change.

If only Lovino was confident he had enough time left to finish.

* * *

After pulling some strings at school, Lovino was given jurisdiction to actually take a few days of extra vacation on the Thursday and Friday before break. It was all in the spirit of artistic endeavor, and his academic advisor was technically supposed to facilitate Lovino's work in any way possible. Granted, he'd had to send in some pictures as actual _proof _of his progress and sketches were to be dropped off at his advisor's desk promptly the day school resumed, but _dammit_, Lovino had lucked out.

On the Tuesday before Antonio's Sunday morning flight, Lovino tackled the remaining window in their bedroom. Unlike all the others, he hadn't sketched an outline because his mind had yet to be made up. He wanted a similar color scheme so as not to throw off the balance, but he'd had a difficult time choosing an image to pair with the night life of Madrid. None of the postcards seemed right. They all took place in the daytime, for one thing, and the brilliant blues and greens clashed terribly with the palette of twilight.

Lovino was inches from just settling with a shot of a lovely fountain in the shadow of a church, until a brighter light bulb flickered on.

Antonio had sent him only one authentic photograph taken with his cell phone, sending it to Lovino because he "just couldn't find the right words, Lovi, it was so beautiful!" Sentimental Antonio had taken a shot of a sunrise over the skyline of Cuenca, a medieval style city tumbling down the sides of steep spur, with the backs of his friends silhouetted perfectly against the brilliant sky. It was the only shot for their bedroom, the Italian decided, because it meant the most to Antonio.

It took Lovino almost the entire day to paint the image. The extra work was due largely to the fact that there was no outline. The grainy photograph was the perfect canvas for artistic license, and Lovino had taken as much liberty as possible with the smooth oranges and wispy grays and bright, brilliant pinks. The backs of the people stood out in sharp contrast to the sky, though at the horizon line shapes and colors blended together. It was the least scripted of all the paintings, and therefore where Lovino's heart was on the line.

He slept on the couch that night to let the bedroom air out, uncertain as to his feelings on the final product.

After the first couple, the rest of the paintings fell into alignment. Never before had passion flown so freely from Lovino's fingertips. Nothing was capable of slowing his rhythm, not Wednesday night when he ran out of blue paint, not Thursday morning when he ran out of green.

He was giddy as image after image formed on the windows and the apartment steadily abounded in a surplus of color.

Belle stopped by with the green paint around noon on Thursday, having taken pity on her maniacal genius. Lovino barely registered the sound of his front door unlocking; he did not bother to put down the paintbrush in his hand, the tip inked with brown ochre.

"Oh my god."

Lovino turned around and grinned, suddenly shy. He'd sent her pictures with his phone, but no one had seen his art in person yet, and her opinion meant the world to him. "Hey, Belle."

"Lovino... Oh my god, I didn't know...," she trailed off, arms limply gripping the plastic shopping bags, eyes as wide as saucers. "Oh darling it's stunning. I had no idea you were creating a _masterpiece _in here. Your phone did _none _of this justice." She approached cautiously and absentmindedly passed the supplies in Lovino's direction, attention fixated on the paintings he'd already created.

To her right was the image of Alhambra, displaying an archway reaching to the very top of the window, etched with the fantastic Islamic engravings Lovino had slaved so diligently over. Through the archway appeared a jungle-like garden, uncolored for lack of green paint. Lovino wasn't sure what the material of the archway was in reality. Maybe marble or even wood, but it appeared timeless in the photograph, and he hoped he'd translated that to the painting.

"This?" she asked quietly.

Lovino passed her the postcard. "They're both in Andalucía. Alhambra Palace in Grenada. Antonio loved it there. The one to your left is the mosque in Córdoba."

Belle directed her gaze across the room and sighed softly, shock and awe written all over her lovely face. "Does anyone ever tell you how damned incredible you are, Lovino?" she asked, initial hesitance wearing off as she fearlessly approached the image of the inside of a mosque, tall pillars arching beyond the window frame, seemingly eternal in their height and majesty.

He feigned shock at her language. "Only Antonio, and he's sort of on a vacation from that bullshit."

"Oh, that boy's going to have a lot to make up for when he sees all this." She turned back to the Italian and smiled. "I can tell you're nervous, Lovi, but don't be. He's going to fall over when he sees all the work you've done."

Lovino coughed, fighting to quell the blush working its way up his cheeks and down his neck. How was he always so obvious to the people he loved most? "It's not... Fuck it all; you don't think it's too much? I sort of just got this crazy idea and went with it." He mimed his hand shooting off into infinity. "Look what a good bottle of Chianti will do to a man, _bella_."

She crossed the room and took his hands, determined seriousness pinching her features. "If you don't think this is the most brilliant idea you've ever executed, you really are crazy! Vargas, look at all this! It's beautiful. You doubt yourself too much. This will blow him away. Antonio has never ever doubted you, Lovi, and this is an example why. You're incredible. I bet he'll turn into a blubbering mess."

Lovino swallowed, a little doe-eyed himself. "Dammit, he won't cry. Antonio's a big baby, but not that much of a baby." He pinched himself and got up, trying to clear his head. "I just think I've gone whacko. How am I supposed to finish before Sunday morning? I still have an entire window to do, and after that I'll need..."

"Time to fret?" Belle suggested, already disappearing into their bedroom. A whole new set of amazed exclamations poured from her lips, and Lovino couldn't help but grin. Maybe things would be fine. He might be so far out of his comfort zone he was floating somewhere in the Pacific Ocean, but he'd put every ounce of energy he had into the apartment's makeover. Antonio would be able to tell that at the very least.

"Tell me this is your Christmas present to him," Belle called, poking her head through the doorway.

"Pretty much. This and the huge dinner I'm making Sunday night. Airplane food is shit. Christmas is Wednesday; his presents are only being unveiled a few days early."

"Good. Some days I'm afraid you're going to work yourself to the bone for that loser." She spoke with a fondness to rival a mother's.

* * *

Belle stopped by both Friday and Saturday night with dinner and ate it with Lovino on the living room floor, simply so she could admire his hard work a little longer. He was mostly finished, with only a few touch ups to add to the painting of an open market in the kitchen.

"I feel spoiled to be the first one to see all this, you know," she admitted, nibbling on a piece of Eritrean _injera, _slightly sour, flat sponge bread they were using to mop up the last of spicy lamb and spinach.

"You don't have long. Antonio's coming home tomorrow." Lovino murmured, sliding the straw of his coke through his lips. He was a little shell-shocked to think about it.

"Oh, I know. He's all mine once you're through with him. Updating his facebook status every once in a while wouldn't kill him."

Lovino couldn't agree more. "I just can't help _worrying_, Belle. What if he's... tired of this? Don't you think it'll be hard to transition?" He waved his hands around the apartment.

"Ah," Belle murmured, lying back on the sheet-covered carpet. "Is that what this is about? You're afraid he's changed."

"Fuck, it's so fucking stupid. He sounds exactly the same. He even called me yesterday just to make sure I had all his flight numbers, and it was definitely his voice. It's not like he's been replaced. Fuck, I'm not even worried about that."

It was the persuasion of the heart that Lovino feared. Antonio had been whisked away to a fantasy land where he'd lived his dream for five months. How could he be willing to return to his gray life with Lovino?

"He will be different, of course. Weren't you, after every trip? But he'll always love you."

"God, I fucking hope so."

But oh how he doubted it still.

* * *

Sunday morning came much too quickly. Lovino was piling paints and dirty sheets into their storage space in the basement right up until he had to leave or risk arriving late for Antonio's flight. There were only three days left until Christmas, and the roads were packed with cars from all over the goddamn country – all over the goddamn _world. _Ten minutes and he'd moved all of twenty feet and seen twice as many cars from Montana.

Forty-five minutes later Lovino was tapping against the steering wheel in unbridled frustration. He was on the ramp to JFK International, all of one hundred feet away from the terminal, stuck in another bout of traffic. He could just barely see through all the cars to catch a glimpse of the pick up lanes down below. A family from somewhere in South Asia had at _least _four bags per person, and Lovino had never seen so many aunts and uncles in one place. Good God, it could take Antonio hours just to get through the baggage claim.

Men in uniform were directing traffic ahead, looking cold and bitter and not amused to be telling the fourth person in a row that there was nothing to be done for the hold up. Lovino rolled down his window as the car neared.

"Please sir, where are you going?" a particularly exhausted and frazzled airport employee requested, blonde hair utterly flattened by the wind.

"I'm picking somebody up."

"You should probably just call them and tell them to get their ass outside to the pick up zone. You'll never get out of here if you try for short-term parking."

Lovino blinked, surprised to have received helpful advice. "Thanks. Merry Christmas."

"And to you."

Doing as suggested, Lovino kept carefully to the right lane, following the inching line of cars as he pulled out his cell phone. It rung only once.

"_Lovi! Are you coming? Tell me you're on your way, I can't wait to see you. Another minute's too long_."

It was good to hear his voice again. Fighting a grin, Lovino replied, "Yeah, I'm on the way now. Meet me outside, though. I can't get into the short term lot."

"_Oh, okay. No problem. I'm getting the last of my bags right now, so I'll meet you out there! Where do you think?_"

"I have no fucking idea." A car behind him beeped angrily, urging Lovino to go the extra two inches forward. "Just look for me, all right?"

"_Wow, it sounds busy out there. It's busy in here too. There are a lot of kids, which is cute, but they sure do take a long time to find their bags_." Antonio, though garbled by the phone, had a bit of an accent from his time in Spain, Lovino realized. It was very subtle, but different, and he wondered if it would fade in time.

"You should go, you idiot. You can't hold three bags and your cell phone."

"_But I miss the sound of your voice_," Antonio admitted softly, and all rustling from his end ceased, as though he was pausing everything just to tell Lovino this. "_It's been hard not hearing you for five months._"

His voice was a little strangled when he replied, "Just hang up, idiot, I'm pulling into a space now. I'll see you in a few minutes."

_"K. Bye, Lovi. I love you."_

"Yeah, I love you, too." Lovino hung up the phone quickly, heart in his throat. Antonio was literally minutes from being his again, minutes from getting in their car and going home and being his to make love to all night. If only that future didn't feel so unlikely and far away.

Pulling into the first available space, Lovino was pleased to see that the door leading to the Iberia Air baggage claim and passenger exit was only a few feet away. Unless Antonio had gone blind in Madrid, he would be able to find the car in a matter of seconds. Nervously tapping his foot against the floor, Lovino stared fixatedly at his overhead mirror, waiting for Antonio to come out on the sidewalk looking as rumpled as he always did after long flights and arduous layovers.

And then. Then there he was, gorgeous and far more tan than he'd been when he left, neglected five o'clock shadow creeping across his cheeks. His winter jacket was haphazardly draped over his shoulders and the hat Lovino had insisted he bring was tugged well past his ears. He'd filled the extra duffle bag and was having a hell of a time dragging three suitcases out the rotating doors of the terminal. But when he saw the car his entire face lit up and damn. Damn how Lovino had missed that expression.

He got out of the driver's side and left the door hanging open, jogging across to take two of Antonio's suitcases from his worn hands. "H-hey, you big bastard," he mumbled, afraid to meet Antonio's eyes, but too desperate for a glimpse to keep long from looking.

Immediately, he was assaulted by one hundred and forty-five pounds of Spaniard. The kiss Antonio pressed to his lips was desperate and quick, a means to familiarize all over again the taste of the man he loved. Antonio's arms wrapped around him and he broke away to press his face into Lovino's neck, breathing in the person he'd been yearning for.

"Oh, god, Lovi, I missed you so much," he mumbled, voice nearly breaking.

Lovino blushed to the very roots of his hair and terrified that his eyes would spill over if the heartfelt embrace lasted for another second, he snapped, "Get in the car before the waterworks start and the airport security have to tow us out of here. You don't want to keep some other couple from their reunion, do you?"

Antonio laughed and shook his head, pulling away to throw his suitcases in the trunk. "Oh, I'm glad to be home."

Embarrassed, Lovino slid back into the driver's seat and waited for Antonio to buckle and settle himself before he started the car. The way out was as congested as the way in, and every possible opportunity Lovino found himself sneaking glances at his lover. He looked utterly exhausted, now that he was within kissing distance.

"Did you sleep at all on the flights?" Lovino asked timidly, reaching across the gear shift to take Antonio's hand.

"Mmm, not really. I finished a book, though." Antonio turned towards him and smiled, resting his cheek against the head rest to keep his eyes on Lovino's face. "I've been up since last night. I couldn't sleep, though! I was so excited to see you."

"You big dork," Lovino breathed, pulling forward a few feet as the light changed. "You're totally wiped. How am I supposed to enjoy your company like this, huh?" But he was smiling so widely his teasing fell flat.

"We can just cuddle, right?" Antonio murmured, threading their fingers together and whining when Lovino had to pull away to shift gears. "We still need a car with automatic transmission, Lovi."

It was such a commonplace comment that Lovino was momentarily speechless. It was like the past five months had never happened, and instead of returning from the airport they were just on their way to the Italian market for amaretto cookies. With one sentence Antonio had healed the unmistakable ache of his absence, easing the distance between them. The complaint was so indisputably Antonio that Lovino actually laughed. "When you reveal millions of dollars in one of those suitcases, be my guest."

"I don't have any surprises like that," Antonio chuckled, humming along to a tune on the radio that Lovino didn't recognize. "But I did get you a lot of presents. Everything reminds me of you and I end up spending way too much money."

"Idiot," Lovino sighed fondly, remembering all too well how the credit card bill had looked in October. "I think- I have a surprise for you too."

"Ah, really?" Antonio asked, drooping eyes suddenly snapping open. He almost looked concerned. "It's not... It's good, right?"

Surprised, Lovino looked over, waiting a little longer than necessary at a stop sign. "Of course it's good, what did you think, idiot?"

Antonio blushed. "Nothing, it's dumb. Ah, hey, Tino's ice cream store is still open; I thought he had to close down?"

"No, there was some anonymous investor a few weeks after you left," Lovino said slowly, parking their car in the usual spot in front of their ten-story apartment building. "Are you okay?"

Antonio stopped midway to the door handle and sighed, his sheepish grin in place. "It's really stupid, _caro. _Maybe I'll tell you later, okay? Please let's just go inside, I've actually missed this place."

Lovino secured the steering wheel lock before getting out and then secured the entire car, ever vigilant of their property. "There's er... well, the surprise is kind of in the apartment."

Antonio was already waiting with his bags on the curb. "I kind of figured."

"No, okay, I explained that wrong. It sort of... is the apartment?" Lovino tried, voice tipping higher in anxiety. He took two of the suitcases once more and started up the front stairs, the reality of his gamble sinking in. What if Antonio hated the window art? It was incredibly disruptive, and Lovino feared that it would annoy Antonio more than the drab view had previously.

"Hmm," his lover responded, able to pick the fear out of Lovino's expression in an instant. "Let's just go up, shall we?"

The trip up the stairs was too painful for Lovino to dwell any more on Antonio's possible reaction. His arms were being pulled out of their sockets by the time he managed to lug Antonio's two brick and bowling ball suitcases to the sixth floor. Antonio was so drained by the flight, he had an even bigger ordeal with just the one, so that by the time he made it to their door, Lovino had already unlocked everything and was waiting for him out in the hall.

"Close your eyes," he ordered, expression terribly determined.

Antonio obeyed without question, at this point familiar with Lovino's eccentricities. He was shepherded through the doorway (Lovino was pulling his suitcase behind them, the _clunk clunk _giving it away) and turned so that he was facing what he thought was the living room. They only had four rooms, and Antonio knew the layout of their cozy home like the back of his hand.

"Okay... you can open, Toni, but... No, fuck, just open," Lovino ordered, his voice tight. He watched his lover blink open his tired eyes – it took a minute for them to refocus – and take in the house. Conveniently, the ten o'clock sun was streaming straight through the paintings of Alhambra, the mosque in Cordoba, and the _Playa de las Catedrales, _illuminating the rugs, the chairs, the old coffee table in a rainbow of gazed from one to the next, face a mask of shock, awe, and best of all, recognition.

"Lovino," he breathed, turning to his mortified lover and thereby getting a full view of the kitchen and the two windows Lovino had painted in there. All over again his face was a mask of delirious surprise. "Oh Lovino. Oh _mi dulce amor_."

With one last giddy glance in Lovino's direction, he disappeared into their bedroom and cried out anew. Lovino followed him at a slower pace, still hesitant and nervous in the extreme. He entered to find Antonio perched shell-shocked on the edge of their bed, eyes flitting between each painting, stalling for longer and longer still on the one of his friends watching the Cuencan sunset. He snapped around at once when he heard Lovino and was on his feet.

"They're amazing," Antonio whispered reverently, wiping ineffectually at the tears forming in his eyes, approaching slowly. "Amazing, you wonderful, wonderful person." He was cut off by an ugly sob that had Lovino at his side in an instant.

"What's wrong?" he asked frantically, concern tangible and transient, for then Antonio was confessing the very same fears Lovino had harbored for months:

"It's just so silly to think that I was w-worried," Antonio stumbled, crying openly now, "about you having moved on or that you resented me for being gone so long just to cook, and then I get back, half-afraid your surprise was a break-up apology, to see these _masterpieces _done in my name, just for me, from the _post cards _I sent you and... and." Antonio broke off to wipe his nose on his sleeve. "You just remind me all the time of how lucky I am."

Lovino pressed their foreheads together, unable to keep his own eyes dry, smile stretching to fill his entire visage. It was okay. Antonio was happy, happy to be home, assuaging his fears as easily as he ever had. "That's why I painted them, you idiot. I know you hate it here and you were so happy in Spain, I wanted you to have that happiness even when you came back. I was worried you were planning on ditching this dump."

Antonio's laugh was wet. "I _was_ happy in Spain, but I was also unimaginably sad because you weren't with me. My heart is always with you, Lovi. There could be a thousand more offers to go to Spain, but I don't want any of them if you can't come with me. I want to show you all these beautiful sights," he murmured, tears finally drying on his cheeks, smile growing as Lovino raised his thumbs to wipe away the trails they'd left. "You captured everything perfectly and you've never been to any of these places. You're so incredibly talented, Lovino. How can I ever repay you for this selflessness?"

Lovino took his hands, more relaxed than he ever remembered being, and pulled Antonio back towards their bed. "I think you've had an absolutely crazy day and are saying absolutely crazy things and it's only 10:20."

"But I mean them all," Antonio swore, falling next to Lovino on the mattress, devotion tempered only by the sleepiness in his eyes.

Lovino tugged Antonio to his chest and wove his fingers in the Spaniard's curly hair, happy just to rememorize that which he had dearly missed. "I know," he responded softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "and God do I love you for that. I'm so fucking happy you're home."

Antonio was asleep within minutes, smile on his lips, an arm draped across Lovino's waist and breath tickling his collar bone, skin warm and sweet and utterly tangible.

* * *

**Compliments and criticisms are much appreciated. **


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